With loads and loads of love,
Julia.
Nov. 25, 1917.
We had our first military funeral on the 23d, for our little boy Sergeant who died of pneumonia. It was most impressive. At two o’clock all who could be spared from the wards assembled in front of the grand stand. The procession started there, first the group of sergeants who were honorary pallbearers, then all the Officers, then American enlisted men, then British enlisted men, then about fifty blue-coated nurses. We marched in twos down to the mortuary and lined up along the road; then the quaint French hearse, driven by a man in a three-cornered hat, was driven through the long line of his friends. His brother, a little private from the Canadian Army, accompanied by one of our men, walked just behind, and the six active pallbearers, his best friends, walked on the two sides. Then we all fell in and marched the mile through the mud to the military cemetery. It is just a big field, nearly filled with small wooden crosses, each bearing the name of a soldier. Ours was the first American laid there. The two padres were waiting for us in their surplices, the dearly loved British clergyman, Dr. Page, and our new young American, Mr. Taylor, who came to relieve Dean Davis. This special place has been set apart for Americans.
It is a lovely, quiet place outside the wall of an old French burying-place. Far off to the West were the blue, blue hills that are on the other side of Rouen, and nearer a long double row of bare, black poplars. And near were the rows and rows of others who had given their all and gone on before. One could almost feel a welcoming stir as we laid our first American among them. A little group of French people had gathered to see what had brought so large a cortège to a place where there are daily interments and where every day the firing squad gives the last salute for the brave boys from our hospitals. The beautiful words of the service had new meaning to them. Then the salute from the firing squad, and “Taps” from the bugler. While the officers and most of the nurses marched away, his Masonic “brothers,” led by our Rabbi, held their symbolic ceremony. There were many flowers, weird French wreaths, which were hung all over the outside of the hearse when it left the mortuary. If only Evart’s mother could have been here, it would have comforted her to feel the love and respect of all his friends and to see the quiet, lovely place where he is laid to rest.
We know that both the American groups have been most fortunate to have had no deaths before this. In the natural course of events they are bound to come, and to have our first not till after six months have passed since we left home, was not to be expected. We will have others, but oh, if I could only bring all my nurses back home safe to their families! Of course, it can’t be, some will have to be sent back because of ill health; there is a question about the lungs of one now, and some we shall have to leave behind. It is a fearful thing to have the responsibility of one hundred women so far away from home. Sometimes it all seems so much, too much for me,—their health, their happiness, their reputation and morals, their general safety and welfare. I try to remember that the responsibility is not all mine. There are strong men helping me, but they only have the important things to attend to about them; I have the accumulation of all the little things as well.
All our recently received patients have been so tremendously elated and excited about the advances made towards Cambrai. It has been wonderful to see their enthusiasm. We have been quite busy taking care of the poor things, 71 operations in 48 hours, a couple of days ago. It has been raining again, and such a wind and rain storm as we had all last night and this morning, but this afternoon it cleared up beautifully and is very cold.
A few days ago an interesting little incident occurred. There was a knock at my office door. When I opened it, there was a patient in his clumsy blue suit, steadying himself against the wall. “Can you tell me where I can find the Matron?” he said. “Yes, right here,” I answered. “I am the Matron. What can I do for you?” He was so wobbly he almost had to lean up against the wall. “Somebody told me,” he said, “that you had a violin. I am a professional violinist and I have not touched a violin for five months, and to-day I couldn’t stand it any longer, so I got up out of bed to come and find you.” I made him come in and sit down. As it happened I had a new violin and bow, which had been bought for our embryo orchestra, here in my office. The violin was not tuned up, but that didn’t matter. The man had it in shape in no time and then he began to play, and how he could play! We let him take the violin down to his tent, and later I sent him some of my music. He was a shell shock, and all the evening and the next few days until he was sent to England he played to wrapt audiences of fellow patients. In our wards we have lots of kinds of music, from gramophones to comb-and-tissue-paper bands. The men are keen about anything that makes a tune. A lot of harmonicas would be a great blessing.
We had such a wonderful lot of letters this morning. I got 12 and Phil 9. I had four from Mother—October 29, November 1, and November 8, and I forget the other date, as Phil has it with him. We had a wonderful time reading each other’s mail. I could not finish until way into the afternoon, I had so many things to do. Letters do make such a difference. I was so glad all these came this A.M., for it is very cold and we admitted 250 patients at noon, but letters will counteract most anything. Somebody wrote in the only copy of the Survey I have seen since I left home that the two things that did troops the most good were letters and singing, and it is true about nurses too. Speaking of singing, can you send me some copies of the new Army and Navy Song Book—say 2 or 3 dozen, if they are not too expensive, or more if possible? I have 100 women, but of course we never can all get together at one time. The October 6th Survey mentioned that book as excellent. I’ll answer the letters soon. They were wonderful and full of juicy bits. You are all so very, very dear to write so much and your letters make such a difference.
Phil has his “Board” to-morrow and will soon know what is to happen to him.